


The Treacle Tart That Led Me To You

by Ledger_Lines_and_hand_me_down_smiles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: After "8th year", BAMF Molly Weasley, Draco really is trying his best, F/M, Food really be out here earning a character tag, Hermione is a ~informal noun~ wORKING GIRL, Minor Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley, Neville gives great advice, Normal Weasley Chaos, Pansy is the friend everyone needs, everyone's just trying to have a good time, gordon ramsay who?, look at Molly following her dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25012573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ledger_Lines_and_hand_me_down_smiles/pseuds/Ledger_Lines_and_hand_me_down_smiles
Summary: About a year after the war, things have settled in the Wizarding World. Although many things have changed, one thing has remained a strong constant; Molly Weasley's love for cooking. With the support of her family, she opens The Red Herring, a diner that has become a safe place for people making their way in the world, as well as one encouraging new beginnings.Hermione helps out, and Draco catches wind of the operation somehow, and really -- fate can't help but push them together.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	1. It really is just the beginning

Molly Weasely undoubtedly made the best Treacle Tart in all of Britain. After all, those exact words could be heard after a particular Weasely family dinner and uttered over and over again by all of the guests.

Molly was no stranger to praise for her cooking.

_“This pudding is bloody fantastic”--_

_“Frankly, I’ve never had better shepherd’s pie in my life”--_

_“Mrs. Weasely, your cauldron cakes are unmatched,”_ \-- Are among her favorite phrases of approval, but the one that stuck with her above all the others was, _“I don’t understand why you aren’t gracing the rest of the wizarding world with your gift for food Mrs. Weasely. Your recipes would make bestsellers.”_

Admittedly, it was something Molly had pondered quite often. Money wasn’t as tight as it used to be, especially now that the war was over, but an extra source of revenue for the family wouldn’t hurt in the slightest. After months of careful consideration, and even an empty shop in Diagon Alley in need of a new occupant, she announced her idea. Needless to say, no one needed convincing.

Harry, the generous boy that he was, even gave her a loan (with the insistence that it would be a group effort) so she could make the down payment on the shop.

It was hers within 3 weeks.

Molly had never really been privy to business opportunities. In fact she considered them to be her husband’s forte rather than her own. But dammit, she had been cooking for her kids for _ages_ and now it was time to cook for the _world._ Maybe it was wishful thinking, she had only cooked for her family and while immediate approval was prominent, she was nervous to witness the unknown verdict of the wizarding public.

Nudging from Arthur however, told her not to doubt herself. Cooking was her passion after all. It was evident in every bite of her rack of lamb or apple pie. Maybe it was time to bring her passion to the front burner for a change, and not just the gravy for the turkey dinner her sons raved about. 

Thus, The Red Herring was born.

It was said that Molly’s blueberry scones were _so good_ , they would make any witch or wizard forget their problems in a blissful haze of desire for more.

  


* * *

She needed help of course.

And with Harry and Ron’s Auror training beginning in a few months, and Hermione’s new position at The Ministry pending, Molly figured that the trio could assist her in the upcoming months. But not just the help of her son and his friends would suffice. 

After all, The Red Herring needed to be promoted.

Hermione, that dear girl, had the grand idea of sending a flyer and sample of a single slice of banoffee pie to one doorstep in every major city in the UK. Word would get around. Hermione encouraged them to have faith in the rumor mill. It was a tad risky, but the shop needed renown, and as her family reassured her again and again, the costs they used to make the pies without revenue would be compensated as soon as the business took off. People just needed to try a slice of heaven courtesy Molly Weasley and then they would be coming back for more -- or so she hoped. 

But as it turns out, (to absolutely no one’s surprise whatsoever) they made breakeven in a _week._ More than that actually.

Molly was so overwhelmed by the positive feedback that she nearly burst into tears on her way in the door every morning. Employees had been thoroughly hired before the grand opening, so, fortunately, they were prepared for the onslaught of customers. However, there was still some room on the team for whichever family member decided to drop by and get coaxed into helping by Molly. Hermione and Harry stopped by often to assist as well. In fact, the two were frequently assigned different quadrants of the kitchen to cautiously prepare whatever delicacy was in demand that day. Occasionally, Hermione sent off deliveries and Harry took over the cash register. On the day of the Grand Opening, the entire Weasley clan could be found bumping into one another in the back, looking over the shoulders of other trained employees and following the orders of the Weasley matriarch. Her family was never too far from this place it seemed. 

Things were going _incredibly well._

There had been more than one request to personally thank the chef for the meal. Molly soon heard more than one rendition of,

_As soon as I had a bite of that delicious banoffee pie I just knew I had to zip over here and check the place out. I’m terribly glad that I did._

Or the less elegant version, 

_Goddamn, you make a great banoffee pie._

At any rate, the promotional pie and flyer were quite good business moves and those that tried the pie and paid a visit, weren’t away for long. 

Whether it was because of the versatile menu or just because seconds weren’t enough, people never quite stayed away for long.

In fact, there were quite a few regulars already. 

They had customers from all sorts of circles, and at the end of the first week when they went to a bar to celebrate, Harry never held back when dishing about gossip and stories he had heard while manning the register. 

The fact that _the_ Harry Potter was manning the register at The Red Herring, also could have had something to do with its success, but the food was wonderful and Harry’s celebrity presence certainly didn’t hurt.

Even old schoolmates showed up and participated in a polite chat. 

Theodore Nott had waltzed up to the register, demanded two lemon meringue pies, and drawled, _“Did they kick you outta The Ministry, Potter? This certainly is quite the job you’ve taken on.”_ And while it wasn’t a very friendly conversation, it wasn’t unpleasant either. After Theo’s appearance, many Slytherins followed suit.

Not just Slytherins though, old classmates from _every house._ Luna and Cho had brought in many interested Ravenclaws, and Hannah Abbott, who happened to be employed by Molly herself, got many former Hufflepuffs hooked on a buttermilk spice muffin. Of course several Gryffindor alumni gathered at the front pastry case right before closing and caught up with the Golden Trio as they passed around crumbs and reject piles of treats, leftover from the day. A reunion party tended to break out every week. 

As the exhilaration dyed down, Hermione couldn’t help but notice that as Ron was sitting on the counter, Lavender wiped off a bit of filling that was left behind on his chin by a raspberry danish. Seamus and Dean were fighting over the last eclair, and in the corner, Neville, Luna, Harry, and herself were deep in conversation. Hermione and Neville were set for drinks next Saturday, while Luna and Harry prepared to set off towards the Leaky Cauldron to meet Ginny. As she bade farewell to her friends and cast a calculating look towards Lavender, Hermione left on her way down the streets of Diagon Alley.

Business was booming, she had reconnected with her friends, and even… well made new ones.

All was well in her world, besides being rather exhausted from her first tireless week of work in the diner.

Hermione always liked it when she was so busy, she didn’t have time to think until all of the excitement was over -- Even when acknowledging how much she did in fact _like_ to think, there was something therapeutic about letting the world fly past her in a daze while being so utterly absorbed in something completely new and different. She let the past events wash over her like a hot shower and tried not to think about how much flour had probably seeped into her bag. 

After all... she was due at the dinner bright and early on Monday. 

* * * 

On the other side of Britain, beat-up flyer in hand, Pansy Parkinson had unwittingly come across the new Weasley family business, and needless to say, she was captivated and -- slightly confused?

What, were the Weasley's testing their hands in _every_ profession these days?

Things just got _curiouser and curiouser._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This is basically my first fic ever and a multi-chapter one nonetheless, so I think it's safe to say that you will probably be seeing more of me here! I really hope you enjoyed this one so far! Comments are always appreciated :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco Malfoy has quite an eventful Tuesday morning.

When Draco Malfoy opens his door _frustratingly_ early on a Sunday morning, all he wants to do is ride his _Firebolt Supreme_ into a fucking _wall._ Pansy's bright and chipper smile compared with the sound of the chilled wind carrying swirling leaves around the manor and scraping on the grounds makes him want to rip his hair out.

Taking an increasingly difficult deep breath, "What are you doing here?"

An affronted look took over her features. "What? A friend can't just come over to catch up with another friend without harboring malicious ulterior motives?"

"Not if that friend is you."

"Damn, no biscuit for you then," drooping a package in her arms Draco hadn't even noticed. 

"Biscuit?" A simple word of intrigue. 

"Yeah, while you've been holed up in this monster house, things have actually continued to happen in the world."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

Giving him _that_ look of doubt over her shoulder, Pansy remarks, "Well I don't know if you have strictly decided not to pay attention to the _news,_ Draco Malfoy, but it seems there is a very popular new diner in town."

Yeah, he _really_ did not have time for this. 

"Okay, so you're coming over here, which is of _no_ convenience for you whatsoever, to tell me that there is a new bakery-" "Diner." He shoots her an incredulous look, " _Diner_ , that I should check out?"

As though it is the easiest thing on Earth for her to do, Pansy rolls her eyes at him with so much expression, it's leaning on ferocity. "Are you always this daft? We're going there _together."_

It was a date by certainly no means, Pansy and Draco had tipped off that boat of romance _years_ ago. However, that didn't mean that they weren't closer than siblings. When something exciting (in her standards anyway) was brought about, she would not hesitate to apparate over to his neck of the woods for a ... field trip of sorts. Together they saw a runway fashion show in Paris, went to Cynthia Malkin's new line gala, and all sorts of adventures. Draco had convinced her to go to _one_ quidditch match before she deemed them too snobbishly dangerous to simply sit still and watch. Although some of their escapades bored him to tears, they could be considered fun once the frill and beads that were usually involved were taken out of the equation. 

He looked at his watch with perhaps too much exaggeration and said, "So... what? Do you want to go now then?"

She stared at him a moment, perhaps toying with different phrases that would all effectively tell him off. 

" _No,_ I have work in an hour, you certainly seem... _busy_ this morning, and they don't have my favorite special on Mondays. So I will simply take off and we will meet on Tuesday morning at precisely 9:45 to enjoy some delicious french toast." She finishes her statement with a flourish and abruptly shoves a white pastry box into his hands. With an air of finality, Pansy turns on her heel to venture to the apparition point. 

Frustrated but knowing that he has lost, he calls out, "Pansy! Where the hell are we meeting?"

Turning around completely and stopping in the middle of the lawn, pausing and then making her way back to him, she gives him a saccharine smile that's a tad suspicious. "The Red Herring, of course."

* * * 

That damn pastry box had successfully ruined his morning. Draco had wondered why Pansy wanted him to give some run-down diner a chance when they could go to several esteemed restaurants they knew they already liked. The whole of Sunday afternoon, he put the box on his dining room table and tried not to be curious. But he hadn't eaten anything besides the stale biscotti he took with his coffee in the mornings and well... it smelled good. 

Opening the box with obnoxious trepidation, he found a treacle tart nestled in the box that looked _amazing._ In a world of grey mist, there was one thing he couldn’t bring himself _not_ to enjoy, and well, let’s just say Draco Malfoy’s interest was piqued. 

He found that after the treat, he was reluctantly more agreeable to this outing on Tuesday morning. 

Wasting his entire Monday away and only glancing at the paperwork he completed on the day previous, he got into bed that night wondering what all the fuss was about and wishing Pansy would be straightforward for _once_ in her life. He was due to meet her in around eight hours and he just _knew_ that there was something that she wasn't telling him. 

Perhaps she only planned to meet him to give him some bad news? Or maybe announce a promotion? How the _hell_ was he supposed to be prepared for whatever bomb he was convinced she would drop on him?

As always when it came to these things, he resolved that there was nothing he could do until it --whatever it was-- actually happened. 

He fell asleep with a clear mind.

At precisely 9:37 the next day, Pansy showed up, knocked on his door, and pulled him out of the house with gusto. He asked her why he couldn't have just met her there. 

She smirked up at him and did not dignify his question with an answer. 

Within seven steps they were in the clearance to apparate and were gone with a _CRACK._

* * * 

Harry came down with a cold. Or _something._ At any rate, it was busy by the time Molly had told her Harry was going to be out for the day, and she had to be the one to take over the register.

At 8:15, Hermione knew exactly why she had never been interested in pursuing a career in customer services. She didn't really like dealing with money, and the hinges on the register were so old and jammed that she had to send a stiff smile at whoever was awaiting their change while she used all of her body weight to pry the damn compartment open. At 8:30, she wonders how Harry handles the job so well. Hermione is pretty sure her status of "Brightest Witch of Her Age" and "Brains behind the Golden Trio," have kept her from receiving lip from certain customers. She may have been clumsy at the front of the shop compared to her preferred spot in the kitchen kneading dough, but that didn't mean she didn't try to get her job done as efficiently as possible. But for one patron, she had him waiting for two whole minutes before remembering she could simply try to spell the compartment open. As she handed buttermilk pancakes and a black coffee over the counter, she could have sworn she heard them mutter, "I'm sure she _was_ the brains."

Hannah came up behind her and looked over the monstrosity on the counter that was currently holding the money captive. "Forget about your wand there for a second?" She asked. Hermione felt a faint blush wash over her face, "I just wasn't thinking of it." She gave Hannah a pointed look when she gave Hermione one that seemed to say, _The Hermione Granger, not thinking about everything there is to think about 100% of the time?_

They both knew it was a friendly tease, so Hermione bit back a queasy laugh and remarked, "You know, this is why I like it better dealing with bread in the back. As far away from this thing as possible."

By 9:00, she had given up on the jammed register and conjured a new compartment at which she could finally easily access money. At 9:47, she was so absorbed in her attempts at organizing the counter, after absentmindedly giving the welcome spiel, she almost missed an order. But when she looked up and realized why the voice sounded so familiar, she almost dropped the mug of coffee that she was supposed to be handing to another customer.

Standing directly before her was Draco Malfoy, dressed to the nines in a simple black suit, trailing off on his order for a spinach quiche and blueberry french toast. His eyes no doubt were scanning the restaurant in a haze as he took in every head of red hair and herself clad in a flour-covered apron. He turned in a flash to glare at his company, who was doubled over in hysterics behind him. 

"Oh, this is just wonderful!" Pansy exclaimed through heaves of tearful laughter. She straightened her composure but pointed an unsteady finger towards Malfoy. "I just knew it would be good! Oh Dear God, I've been waiting to see your face since this place _opened."_

Seemingly at a loss, Malfoy opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water as Pansy pushed passed him. "Hey Granger, what do you say about that blueberry french toast?" 

Amused by Malfoy's bought of speechlessness and trying not to be offended, she turned to Pansy and let out a little laugh. "Of course, French Toast coming right up. Is.. there a quiche I can get for you, Malfoy?"

He managed a nod before running off to find a table and Pansy asked for two mugs of hot chocolate. "Calms his nerves," she whispered, and Hermione let out another hesitant chuckle. 

_My day could certainly not get any stranger._

* * * 

Draco Malfoy was a man of indifference. He couldn’t care less whether the air was crisp or humid outside, if the leaves were beginning to shed their summer colors or about to bloom blossoms for spring, or if his coffee was black or sugared. Not even what kind of men he suspected his mother brought home from time to time. To him, it was all just… the same meaningless pill to swallow. But when Pansy showed up at his door, a ginormous box of treacle tart in hand and regally pronounced them the best in all of Great Britain, he was still admittedly quite apathetic.

It tasted bloody fantastic, but he was still very unsure that the place was worth his time. 

If he was going to be a patron _anywhere_ , the establishment had to _earn_ it. 

So as he walks into the impressive Red Herring, still on edge from Pansy, who seems to be vibrating with excitement, he stops them both on the cobblestones outside. 

"What the bloody hell is going on? You're going straight berzerk over there."

As she looks up at him, it is clear that he has dampened some of her energy and looks disappointed to be caught. Her look of defiance and anticipation is sprung right back full force seconds later. "You'll just have to see why this place is so special."

Rolling his eyes at her he mutters, "Can't wait."

Keeping his eyes on the menu the whole walk to the front counter, he is noticing a quiche that sounds rather good. He'll give it a try -- just to taste something else that would prove that their delicious treacle tart is a fluke. 

After he has ordered Pansy's special as well, he looks down to make sure the woman at the counter has gotten their order correctly. 

Only to come face to face with Hermione Granger.

So _this_ is why Pansy is losing her shit right now. Taking account of the employees, he can identify about 4 heads of red hair and decides he wants to be as far from this place as possible. Pansy is causing quite the scene and he can't bring himself to say a word, nonetheless, look at Granger who is looking rather shocked herself. 

Pansy seems to collect herself rather quickly and seems as laid back as he's ever seen her. Before Draco loses _his_ shit and leaves, he notices that mirth is clouding Hermione Granger's shining eyes and he wishes that the ground would swallow him whole. It's really all he can do to keep his composure. He nods when Granger says something about his quiche and then turns and rushes to a booth as far as he can possibly manage while still being inside the building. 

When Pansy joins him moments later and places two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in front of him, he fixes her with a vehement glare. "I assume this--" he pauses to gesture wildly around himself, "is why you have been so eager to bring me here?"

She smiles at him in such a way, and he knows he's right. But she only leans back in her chair and clutches her own mug of tea. "I don't know what you're talking about. I know how taken you are with a treacle tart so I figured I would do you a favor and introduce you to this fine new diner that I am positive you will enjoy increasingly."

"Likely story." He crosses his arms, "How did you even find out about this place?"

She laughs in a manner he just _knows_ her parents would not approve of and goes on to say, "Well I'm surprised you didn't receive a flyer. They've sent them out everywhere it seems. Theo and Blaise were here just last week telling me how good their desserts are."

He raises his eyebrows at her, "Blaise too? Damn, his standards are higher than the goddamn _moon._ I can't imagine why he would step foot in here."

She gives him the same look, "It appears someone is being outlandishly judgy today, shall I fetch you a third hot chocolate?" She says already rising, and although he has finished off the first one, he will not with a good conscience, let her order anything else. 

"Sit down, will you? You're enjoying this far too much."

"I sure am and I'm not even sorry." She says in that smug way of hers, and Draco wishes he didn't have the urge to punch a wall. 

"Of course you aren't."

As their food is delivered to their table by what looks like Hannah Abbott, Draco shoves a forkful of quiche in his mouth and fumes. 

"What? Did you want in on this twisted family reunion?" He asks and looks so flustered that Pansy takes pity on him. 

She sets her fork down too delicately, in a way that goes to show how many etiquette classes she has been forced to go through, and begins to wring her hands in her lap.

"I figured it was time to get you out of that damn manor, okay? Plus, I've become a bit of a regular here and if you look past the fact that you see a redhead of hair practically everywhere you turn, the cooking is really quite fantastic." She pauses and bites her lip, "They're moving forward quite adequately, Draco. Theo, Blaise, and I wouldn't come here if we thought that they weren't. We just -- well I just thought that maybe it's time for you to move forward too."

He looks at her, and then down into his lukewarm quiche, and even though he wasn't very hungry anymore, he wolfs it down and tries not to notice how inviting and flavourful it is.

On the way out, he orders a treacle tart to go and when Pansy gives him a warm smile, he pretends not to notice that too. 


	3. Chapter 3

When Harry comes back in the next day with a red nose and tired eyes, Hermione feels bad for doubting him.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, leaning on the counter while he prepares the cash register for the day. 

“Better now. Yesterday I felt like I was hit by a bludger.”

She patted his shoulder, “Maybe you shouldn’t have gone to all of Ginny’s games without using a warming charm or two?”

“When she’s flying I don’t tend to notice much else,” Harry says and adopts a dreamy look. 

Hermione gives him a playful shove, “No drooling over the register now.”

He gives her a mock salute and takes and exudes visible surprise when he opens the register drawer with ease. “You fixed it! I knew you would,” he throws a big goofy smile at her. 

“Wait was this your plan the whole time? To take a sick day and not even give me a bloody _warning_ about how annoying that jammed chamber was? I trashed the whole damn thing after closing, and conjured a new one thank Merlin.” 

Hermione’s a bit affronted at first, annoyed that Harry probably thinks it’s okay to leave problems like these to her so offhandedly, but he always means well and … she did fix it didn’t she?

He gives her another sly smile and straightens his posture, “That was clever. I was just charming it open over and over again every time someone ordered.”

She shakes her head with an understanding smile, “Yeah yeah, I’m so resourceful and brilliant, you can stop buttering me up now, Potter,” she says crossing her arms. 

Seconds later they drop the act of false seriousness with laughter and she clubs him on the shoulder with this morning’s edition of _The Daily Prophet._

“Back to work, you,” she teases and goes to check on Ron and the trials and tribulations that come with making an apple fritter. 

Hermione hands him the cinnamon as she passes by and he gives her a light smile before returning to work.

Things between them aren’t awkward exactly, just a little bit… strained. 

Ron was... Ron. Caring and sweet. He always seemed to know the right thing to say and his touch just ignited her in a way she had never understood. Eventually, she supposed it came with time, or maybe it was something else, but her feelings moved from romantic to platonic in a sequence that was terrifying. Soon kissing him felt like drowning, and displays of intimacy were suffocating. 

Hermione had always figured that they would settle down somewhere, bring some babies into the world, and travel down the path of married life, but maybe it was that thought that made her faintly question her relationship. Ron was _safe._ He was secure and a golden constant. He was all that she knew, really.

She began to think that maybe that fact wasn’t good for either of them. Didn’t they need to experience the world in a way that made their hearts race as well as to feel exhilarated as often as content? Hermione didn’t _want_ to settle. Didn’t want to give up excitement for dependability. Maybe she wanted a love that would change her instead of a love that she altered to fit inside her heart. 

Ron deserved someone who would understand him through and through. Hermione wasn’t the right person for him either. Sometimes she would get frustrated by his ticks and habits and distance herself in a way that wasn’t good for him. Ron knew though, knew before she even had the courage to confront herself. He always had this brilliant foresight about him that Hermione always envied. Most of all, he understood. It was mutual really, they broke it off without really even having to verbally confirm. She still cared about him very much, but she couldn’t continue to be with him like that. He grew attuned with her needs and when he wanted to show her, in any small way that _it’s okay. I understand. I love you, okay?_ he would take her hand in his own on their way out of the diner, when the sky was dancing in twilight hues, right up until they parted ways and headed home. He would look at her so tenderly, small, careful, wrinkles dusting the space around his eyes that conveyed a tired reassurance, and he would turn around and kiss her cheek before he left for his flat. It wasn’t stifling anymore.

When he suggests they stay in the shop after closing for a bit to catch up this Wednesday evening, she doesn’t hesitate to agree. 

It’s been weeks since they’ve had a thorough conversation and Hermione will readily hop on any wagon that allows them to know each other again.

She looks at him for a moment longer, his face twisted in a cautious focus, turned down, fringe falling into his eyes, gathering chunks of apple, and she preserves him like this in her memory. She picks up a tub of cutlery and makes her way to the sink.

* * *

As they each take their warm tea and sit in a booth beside the expansive window that roams the wall, she tells him he has a speck of nutmeg on his nose. They have to start somewhere. And she knows all too well how much good that line has done for them before.

The conversation carries easily after that. Their relationship has felt like it’s been pulled taut for the last few weeks. She tries to blame it on Lavender, but just because Ron’s beginning to really fancy her again doesn’t mean she’s the one responsible for Ron and Hermione’s lack of recent communication. No, Hermione’s a little stubborn that’s all. It takes a lot of convincing from that little voice in her head to stop blaming the outcomes of her own actions on her friends and even though she hates being honest with herself she knows she’s improving every day. 

On top of relationship hurdles, the Weasley’s are still grieving. Everyone is. The fact that Fred isn’t with them to enjoy the success of The Red Herring no matter how much they wish he was with them at all, and that Molly can be heard shouting critiques and orders at her Weasley boys, (Ginny’s try-outs for the Holyhead Harpies went marvelously, she was eagerly accepted and spent most of her time training that wasn’t spent sitting on the counters of the kitchen and shouting out orders along with her mother) and when Molly accidentally calls out “Fred!” one afternoon, she has to leave the room for a moment and the mood quickly turns somber. 

The war took something from all of them. Irreplaceable pieces that they can’t get back, as well as facts just don’t seem as true anymore. For example, Hermione has always loved facts. Tidbits of information that can save the day, or meaningless trivia, or even reciting passages of texts that she’s read. She’d be surprised if she hadn’t memorized the entire Hogwarts library by now. It’s not that she’s less sure of herself these days. No, it’s just she was always so sure of who she _was,_ that she doesn’t know who she is supposed to be _now._ Alright, maybe that’s exactly it. Is Hermione Granger, muggle-born war heroine who she is? Or is it insufferable know-it-all, spilling facts every five seconds? The most pressing question seems to be, which Hermione is good enough? She has undeniably staked basically her entire identity upon facts already, and without the certainty that she used to gloat, Hermione can’t really say she knows who she is anymore. She still treasures her top marks as highly as she did when she was in school, but despite her reputation, that’s not all Hermione wants to be known for. As she thinks more and more about it, she wonders if she even has a second identity to fall back on. Is she only valuable as the person people look to when there is a problem or inconvenience that needs solving? Is she even funny? What makes Ron and Harry want to spend time with her? 

With her insecurities practically blooming out of every pore, she really wonders how she isn’t constantly exhausted when she spends all of her time analyzing every one of them. 

Right now, however, all _that_ is beside the point.

When she suggests a get together of sorts where they (along with Harry of course) can sit around a table and reminisce about their school days and catch up, maybe even heal a little bit more together, he doesn’t think twice before declaring it a great idea. 

Ron even volunteers to bring over his famous pasties and a steak pie for them all to try. Even though sweets have given Ron some grief, he’s rather talented when dealing with the savory spectrum. The first time he dabbled in the field, when he tried to re-create his mother’s special shepherd’s pie, he was inspired by the spice rack Hermione had decided to gift him on a whim when he mentioned he’d like to get into the art. 

It seems Molly had passed along more than just the traditional Weasley temper and Ron wound up with his mother’s fantastic sense of taste and the skill of knowing _just_ what a dish needs to push it over the top. Whether it be a dash of pepper, or a pinch of cardamom, every dish he makes tastes complete. To everyone’s surprise but Hermione’s, he had become Mrs. Weasley’s right-hand man in the kitchen. 

There was a time when Hermione had to step in to make sure he didn’t burn the house down, but overall it was the cooking itself and not the logistics in which Ron excelled. Now he was practically inventing recipes instead of just following them and she knows that in one way or another, he’s happy. In a funny way, it’s almost the culinary equivalent of a magical payoff Ron never got in school, a satisfaction of _look what you’ve done, you’ve made something great._ There had been awe of course, but not the pride that comes along with creating and tinkering and presenting a finished product. Hermione knows from experience that there is something completely different between harnessing magical finesse and technique to execute a spell just right, and the intricate hands-on attention you have to utilize to follow your senses and gut feelings instead of logic -- especially for cooking. Cooking is compelling for Ron in a way that Hogwarts and magic were (are) to Hermione. Once you enter a new world, you have no choice but to be in awe and immerse yourself in it. And Hermione thinks it’s rather perfect that someone with an as perverse palate as Ron can now follow his gut to actually _make_ what he’s hungry for. Not to mention he’s rapidly refining his skills every day. 

Remarkable really, what one can achieve given the right opportunity.

  
* * *  
  
  
  


It started on accident actually. After he visited the diner with Pansy yesterday, she wanted to run in some shop and needless to say, he wasn’t really interested in going along no matter what wonders could be found within it, so he decided to go for a stroll outside and she would come find him when she was done. 

Pansy was right. He really had not been out of the house in a long time. It could have been weeks since she dragged him out last. It wasn’t that he was so occupied with work he had no time for anything else. No, that wasn’t the case whatsoever.

He tended to find whatever legal or financial paperwork of his that needed filling out or even scope out some busywork that the ministry would give him on the sly. Draco was a rehabilitated ex-Death Eater, after all, but his impressive marks couldn’t be ignored for long. No one had to know it was him who was doing the work either, the minister even considered it compensation for what he had done _\--give us an extra hand and we’ll lessen the severity of your sentencing_ . It wasn’t as if anyone would _actually_ hire him anyway. He did rather enjoy playing secretary anyway. At this rate, he was scanning documents for _fun._ The Ministry sent him things to complete every so often and he filled them out as fast as possible and with absolute focus. 

When he did find a satisfactory opportunity to leave his vast home however, Draco Malfoy always prided himself on his punctuality. He arrived precisely on time, and not a second later. A clever tactic, he supposed, to keep himself from drowning in the dust that seemed to accumulate on every surface in the Manor. 

They did have house-elves. Of course, they did. Only… well, they spent their time in the kitchens instead of the empty hallways practically begging for remodeling. The somberness that seemed to radiate from every doorway seemed to depress all residents in the Manor no matter their species. After all, it was the same Manor in which he would sometimes drop all of his tasks just to lay on the floor in a heap and try to ignore how appealing the fire whiskey looked. No, no, he would not give in to that temptation. … _Again._ Instead, he would stare at the ceiling and count every single handpainted tile until the sky grew dark. 

It goes without saying that every outing he endured was a breath of fresh air. Once he warily re-entered Malfoy Manor after a day out -- it was back to the oppressive weight of dull greens covering every armchair and curtains that seemed to weigh more than he did. On occasion, he would roam the halls, going around every wing (except for hers) in a crazed run hoping to find a room that didn’t make him want to scream. He failed every time. 

He was … well yes, he was miserable. But he simply couldn’t move away. Of course not. His mother would be all alone with only the poppies for company in the demesne. No matter how brief their visits over tea were, he knew that he couldn’t just… _live_ somewhere else. Even though he dreaded it being the place where he had to settle, close his eyes, and make the effort to give his tired brain a rest, Draco couldn’t imagine existing in any other home. 

So as Draco Malfoy is strolling down the streets of Diagon Alley as casually as possible and hoping to scout out a new teapot for his mother, he comes across it.

Ignoring all of the benches in the area at the end of the road that turns from cobblestones to faded brick, he heads toward a shadowed alleyway. One that he suspects gets overlooked quite often. 

One that leads behind the establishments. There’s a small brick wall climbing up along the way, and a hill of dirt and stone above it. He pauses only for a fraction of a second before making his way towards it.

Throwing a quick _why the hell not?_ Over his shoulder, he climbs over the wall and heads down a path through the trees. 

He discovers a new clearing, surrounded by alder and oak trees that seem to reach for the clouds overhead and provide a pleasant shade. A set of concrete benches and a withered card table reside in the glade, a perfect picture encompassing loneliness and neglect, each surface engulfed by dead leaves that have fallen from the branches above. There’s a strong scent of stale autumn air and dry leaves that assaults his nostrils as soon as he steps in. Sunlight seeped through in rays providing scattered spots on the ground where weeds tried to grow. He suspected it could be used as a meeting place for shop owners, or simply just a nice place for a gathering. Or a pocket of isolated solace. 

Draco tried not to love it. 

Just like when it came to the treacle tart, Malfoy lost the battle. 

There’s a prominent crisp chill sneaking through his sleeves. He set his to-go box on the wooden table and breathed in deeply for what feels like the first time in months. 

Gravitating toward a sunny patch, he feels a ray soaking into the skin behind his neck and through the suit jacket on his back. He looks up, through a thick of branches and took in the blue-tinged sky spotted with clouds despite what was beginning to be a bitter chill that suggested overcast weather. It wasn’t the kind of stark breeze that swiftly runs around your bones and settles deep in your legs, but rather the kind that taunts you as you exhale, begging to be breathed in and to wake your lungs from a deep sleep.

Most alarmingly appealing was the urge to follow just where the gusts would take his feeble form. It occurs to him here, with striking clarity that is comical, how it shouldn’t be a surprise --least of all to him-- how it is no wonder he was just so _pale,_ the skin around his eyes gaunt and his body hollow when he was _this_ surprised and refreshed from being outside for less than half an hour. 

Pansy finds him like this, head tilted sky-ward, hands open at his sides, and eyes closed as her ragged breaths announce her presence. 

She stares at him a moment before huffing a frustrated laugh. “Here I am thinking you’ve gone off and left me but _no_ , Draco Malfoy’s sense of adventure makes a resounding comeback.”

He doesn’t move except to turn his head over his shoulder and offer, “It took me a minute to find this place too.”

“You really enjoy making things hard for me don’t you? I figured you would be ogling some antiques, not becoming one with _nature,”_ Pansy says with mock scathing and they both know she’s just teasing him. 

She knows above anything else that he’d never really leave her behind (he was just momentarily occupied that’s all, he was going to go check on her in a second, he _swears_ ) and she’s always glad when he surprises her with a sense of tranquility that seems to be healthy for him.

Although now that Draco does realize, he is quite a bit out of the way, how long had she been looking for him? “How did you find me anyway?” He turns to her with innocent curiosity.

She fixes him with a hard look and then stubbornly pins her eyes forward to stare hard at the trunk of a willow tree as she crosses her arms. “So quick to underestimate me, are you? I just used a point-me spell to determine the direction of you’re location. That, and you always seem to be drawn to dark, overlooked alcoves.” She pauses and puts her hands in her pockets, not moving her stare. 

“You are rather predictable, you know,” she says and turns her head in a quick motion as if trying to shake off the chill that has begun to turn her nose and cheeks a bit rosy.

Suddenly, Pansy comes up next to him and observes the rest of the glade that surrounds them as well as his content eyes that are still wandering through the place as if seeing it for the first time. 

“I guess I can see what all the fuss is about. Shall we deem this ‘Draco Malfoy’s new secret hideout’?”

He smiles at her and doesn’t have the heart to tell her that she just might be right.

  
* * *

On the day of the Golden Trio’s Get-Together, which happens to be a Saturday evening, the faintly golden sun is setting by the time the boys amble through Hermione’s quaint flat. A large window is open, the feeble screen hoping to catch breezes as they pass. It’s not too cold in London yet, the chill only just beginning to seep into her bones, but the gusts of wind that greet her sweltering kitchen are very welcome. Hermione hands a butterbeer to Ron after he sets down pasties and pie on the table and settles on the kitchen counter while Harry quietly takes one and joins her around the table. 

“Looks like a good night for a party, eh?” Ron says with the same joyous glint in his eyes and Hermione is glad to have her boys back together again. With the haze of excitement over the restaurant still brimming around the Weasleys, it’s been a while since they’ve been in the same place long enough for more than a quick chat. 

Hermione and Neville have even started a routine of getting drinks together every Saturday. She had just seen him before she got home to prepare for guests actually. Hermione enjoys Neville’s calm and unreserved company and it makes her sad that she didn’t really get to know him like this when they were in school.

Harry is quick to thank her for hosting and compliments her decor in that steadfast polite way of his, and Hermione laughs warmly because it seems that no matter how old he gets, Harry will be kind before he can be himself. 

Despite the lively attitude Harry exudes now, Halloween is nearing them at a high speed and she knows that Harry’s apprehensive. She doesn’t know if going through another year of remembering will ultimately break him. It seems that while his parents are occupying his thoughts, then Sirius and Remus aren’t far behind and rapidly, Halloween has become a second anniversary, much like that of the war, that honors the many people who have fought to make the world a brighter place. 

Right now though, there are simply three friends enjoying an evening together. 

She goes on to tell them more about the internship she had at the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office under the Department of Magical Law Enforcement over the summer and even got to work with Arthur occasionally. She had sent in a resume and had several interviews for a job within the Department of International Magical Cooperation in which she would start months into the next year. 

Harry and Hermione teased Ron a little mercilessly about their fourth year and the whole Krum catastrophe, and Ron shook his head with a smile on his face. Hermione hadn’t felt this light in ages.

In turn, she asked them if they were excited about their upcoming Auror training. Harry slowly nodded but Ron sat up to elaborate, “To be honest, I still can’t over the fact that we’re going to be out there with real jobs soon enough. I mean I’ve never really imagined any other future for myself, but now with the diner and cooking and everything? I’m beginning to wonder if I made the right choice deciding to get back out there,” he leans back against the cabinets, his hands wildly gesticulating as they always have, and continues, “All the things we did during the war was practically enough fieldwork to last a lifetime, don’t you think?” And Harry snorts. 

They tell her that they still want to go out in the world and genuinely help people -- or at least _try_. They all grew used to the adrenaline rush that came along with running from Death Eaters and such, that doing something that doesn’t give them the albeit occasionally unpleasant thrill that shows up when protecting or dueling seems unrealistic. 

After demonstrating initially no hesitation to become Aurors, right out of the war no less, Harry and Ron had decided to finish their education with Hermione after all. They took their N.E.W.T.s instead of accepting the offer to join training right away. If not to preserve their last year as students in the place they called home. They along with many of their classmates, professors and even strangers who had gone to school there as children had all spent last summer helping with the reconstruction of Hogwarts, and if not slightly more haphazard than usual, it still stood as a beacon of hope for every student returning or otherwise. 

Seeing empty spots at the grand tables of the great hall was more upsetting than any of them could have anticipated. Seeing new, young faces occupying most of the spaces made some of the older bunch give tearful smiles to the newcomers. 

Some Slytherins even returned and despite the sense of house-unity that was continually growing, people still cautiously kept their distance from the older ones. 

Over the course of the year even as it grew more sentimental as the reality of time running out set in, the 8th years were frantically studying. Even Ron. It was rare to be seen holding a conversation for more than a few minutes during the week before the exams. Most of the time was spent with your nose in a book and desperately cramming. The older Slytherins generally kept out of everyone’s way even as inter-house study groups were formed. 

The times when he could be spotted, Hermione would watch Malfoy walk alone through the halls like a soldier going into battle, and for some reason, it bothered her that she didn’t see him talk anymore. 

Pansy it seemed, was a steadfast companion to Malfoy and sat next to him at meals even if they didn’t seem to be having any sort of conversation, which irked some of the Gryffindors for no good reason.

The most interesting thing about the year was the fact that she and Hermione had interacted on numerous occasions. As she sat at her favorite library table to do some reading, Pansy would sometimes go as far as to greet and sit across from her. She had even gone so far as to compliment Hermione’s shoes and she didn’t know whether she was being genuine or not. Pansy said things with such unwavering certainty that as unreasonable as it sounded, people didn’t really know whether or not to take her seriously. Needless to say, Pansy was full of surprises. 

Just like that day she took over the register for Harry, she didn’t really know how to react to Pany’s presence. 

It wasn’t as if she apologized for wanting to practically throw Harry at Voldemort, but she moved forward as if she had absolutely no remorse and Hermione wasn’t sure how to feel about it. 

Hermione’s train of thought was swiftly de-railed as soon as Harry placed a large photo album on the table.

“It’s the one Hagrid gave me during first year. I thought we could look through it together and make fun of our younger-selves,” he says after he wipes imaginary dust off of the cover. 

Hermione and Ron gather around him and they each take turns flipping pages and whispering soft remarks about their schooldays.

Harry has added some new additions, definitely not forgetting the time Ron tried to get Hermione on a broom at the Burrow one summer in which her face is displaying numerous expressions of panic, and the time they got a group shot of the trio and Hagrid together looking out over the lake. 

Looking over a particularly embarrassing picture Hagrid took when they were all twelve years old and awkward Hermione all but gasps out a laugh, “Oh my, how were we ever that small?”

The boys chuckle at that and soon more half-stories are told before they are cut off by unrestricted laughter and the rest of the night follows suit along with appreciative grunts for the delicious food Ron brought.

Hermione sends them off with a smile and a promise to get together again. It really has been far too long. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


It wasn’t that Draco was refusing food from the house-elves. No, no, he ate plenty. Scattered, little meals at irregular hours because he found that he rarely got hungry these days. There was really nothing compared to a home-cooked meal, however.

Draco considered making a reservation at Alson’s. Thought about how he might eat while being doused in candlelight in the back corner of the restaurant, desirably concealed. But he would probably just get over-seasoned lasagna anyway, and he wasn’t really in the mood to be disappointed. 

Then… he thought about Pansy’s french toast and how open and light _that_ damn place looked and he was sent into another bought of unrest. 

But his discomfort was shortly nothing but a memory as he grew more restless and antsy. In a fashion that Draco doesn’t remember _ever_ being as severe, his pacing grows frantic, and soon enough he has the urge to burst out of the parlor onto the front lawn. With an… undesirable destination in mind. 

It’s been happening more and more these days and Draco doesn’t know how to _stop_ it. 

It’s getting harder and harder to maintain his restraint. His “undisturbed presence” or so Pansy put so indelicately. He doesn’t think it’s a stretch to say he’s going insane. 

Draco’s been a bloody mess lately.

Finding solace on the _floor?_ Parading around in the dirt, getting paint on his sleeves? It really wouldn’t be so bloody surprising if the changes in his character hadn’t shone through so subtly. But really what was he expecting? He’s just a shell of a man. A vessel of lost dreams and a shocking amount of melodrama. Waltzing through his dreams with clarity and through the real world in a haze. Where did his sense _go?_

Apparently, along with his newfound frustrating disregard for cleanliness, he has gained a new affinity for questions. All of which he cannot answer (or doesn’t want to).

_Really, where’s Hermione Granger when you need her?_ He finishes the thought with a dry laugh and suddenly nothing and everything seems outrageously funny at the same time. 

He allows himself a faint smile and grabs his coat jacket with a sense of urgency and heads outside.

_Fuck it. I’ve nothing more to lose, have I?_

  
* * *  
  


He finds it a little amusing that Pansy has no idea that he has decided to pay The Red Herring a second visit. 

He makes the whole trip looking like he’s tasted something sour, and even though it was his choice to go, he’s acting like someone is making him walk all the way down the aged cobblestone streets to the front of the diner. 

He has no idea what he’s going to order. When has he ever gone headfirst into a situation he hasn’t prepared for? Draco figures he can just add this occurrence to the long list of things he’s done that are crazy. 

The minute he stalks over to the front counter and eyes the man with dark hair and spectacles that is standing behind it, he registers a sense of surprise that he has no business feeling. _Where’s Granger?_

As he looks around the establishment, he notices faintly that of the patrons that have already been seated, they have all collectedly turned their attention on him. A while ago it would have bothered him. Hell, it _did_ bother him. But after months of being stared at like the vile, despicable piece of shit that he is, Draco’s become immune to icy regard that he can just practically _feel_ by now. The thing is, the people that stare? Well, he doesn’t blame them.

Draco also figures that one is too many times to have lost his collectedness--in this place nonetheless--so he has to consciously embody nonchalance to avoid making a fool out of himself _again._

“Potter, nice to see that you’ve been working these days,” He says it with no noticeable tremors in his voice, but damn his heart is hammering for absolutely no reason.

He scans the restaurant with feigned blankness and orders a sausage roll without looking at him. Draco almost thinks he can get by with tea today but thinks better of it and orders a mug of hot chocolate instead. 

Potter doesn’t say anything the whole time, only making confirmatory grunts until the end when he says, “Hermione will bring that out to you shortly,” and hands him the mug.

He says his thanks as quietly as possible and goes to find the same booth on the opposite side of the room.

Draco’s almost finished his entire mug when Granger rushes over with the roll. He thinks she looks a little frazzled but trying to conceal it with an impassive look to rival his own. He supposes he might not have even noticed her state of discomfort if it wasn’t for the slight shake of her hands as she places a plate in front of him. She mutters a hushed, “Enjoy,” before she starts to head off, and even if it’s of no importance or relevance, Draco wants to ask, “Why weren’t you at the register today?” So… he does. With his mouth directly disregarding the leash that his brain is trying desperately to reign in on his vocal cords, the same leash just begging him not to initiate more interactions than he has to. But naturally, Draco doesn’t listen to the rational part of his brain that tries to advocate for self-preservation.

She looks very taken aback for a second. How had he said it? With too much fragile weight that his voice has become more used to using, or the harsh coolness that appears at random? He really shouldn’t have said anything at all. He doesn’t even care, why was he so quick to ask? It’s normal for people to have different tasks within a job anyway, so why does it matter what it is that she happens to be doing today?

Then she quickly shuffles her face back into one displaying no emotion. “That’s Harry’s job. Not mine.”

And she walks away.

He looks into the sausage roll taking up the plate and then he looks out of the windows. 

Not her job? What was she doing- doing it then? Why did it bother him so much? He had no right to be bemused either, what was he doing thinking that the way he had seen things when walking in with Pansy, would be the way they would always be? 

What was he doing thinking at all?

He bit into the dish, acknowledged how filling and piquant it was and swiftly finishes it within four bites and leaves. 

He winds up right back at the glade and if Draco didn’t know any better he would say it’s just a one/two-time thing. 

Merlin forbid this turn into a routine. 

He finds himself staring at the same plot of trees and leaf-covered bench two days later. 

_Gods,_ what has he gotten himself into?


	4. Chapter 4

  
After she gets home from a long day of work, Hermione’s room smells like rain. 

It’s the kind of scent that combined with a good measure of lethargy will guarantee she is out like a light within minutes. Sleep sounds like a welcome reprieve, but it isn’t really one that she wants to find comfort in at the moment.

There is still a steady sprinkle falling from the full clouds as Hermione makes her way down to the kitchen. The room is lit with a dull brightness provided by the not quite set sun that is somewhat hidden behind the clouds as it makes its descent to the horizon. The grey of the sky is an appreciated sight. 

Hermione thinks with no small amount of mirth, that the sky presents a perfect backdrop for her somewhat amusedly stormy mood. There isn’t really a specific reason she’s so hazily upset. It could have been the weight that settled in her chest that Hermione felt as soon as she woke up this morning. Or the fact that she spilled a glass of tea on her shoes earlier and stared at the mess with no reaction before cleaning it with a flick of her wand and walking away. Burdening her the whole day, this feeling kept her quiet and unresponsive and frankly unnecessarily short-tempered. Harry and Ron don’t push her, really, they know better not too. Ron though gave her a biscuit he had just finished making before she went on a break. It was just what she needed even if it didn’t lift her spirits completely. Maybe the fact that it was her parent’s anniversary had nothing to do with it at all. With an eye roll, she turns on the stove, _Yeah, Hermione, who’s to say?_

The shifting greys are unbiased and she relishes in the shade in a way she knows she would not have if the sky had taken on any other appearance, such as a bright clear atmosphere that would mock her with it’s implied optimism.

Hermione decides to make herself some cinnamon apple cider -- a recipe of her mom’s that always used to calm her -- and goes out the back door of her flat to rest against the balcony.

She almost wishes she had a backyard so she could lay down in the achingly appealing grass, but alas, her budget for this flat was already a little high for the limited space. Transferring and converting Galleons to muggle currency and in between different accounts and vaults was already a tad overwhelming as it is. She had purchased this muggle flat in a desperate attempt to be independent and not singularly reliant on Harry and his plentiful Gringotts fortunes. He even offered a loan of sorts to Hermione, but she declined. It made her want to prove to him that she could make it on her own with such a new sense of urgency that may just be a little concerning. 

It’s not like she feels like she has to prove herself to _everyone_ these days. Right?

But sometimes it just escapes Hermione how Harry doesn’t realize and appreciate how fortunate he is.

Harry knew immediately where he was going to live after they left school. Grimmauld Place was readily available to him, and even if it’s short-term, it was still a relieving asset. He didn’t have the stress built on his shoulders of having to find a place to live all by himself. Grimmauld Place was already taken care of, and even though Harry offered her a room, Hermione wanted to do something liberating on her own.

More than that, she just needed space to _breathe._

Harry and Ron live together and Ron doesn’t really have to worry about rent. She can’t imagine what that feels like. But she has to remind herself that this is the path she chose, and she can’t really be standing around wishing she didn’t want to know what it would feel like to not have to pay her bills. 

Hermione’s just scraping by as it is. She’s thinking about picking up a second job, actually. Mrs. Weasley has been incredibly kind and has paid her with her earning of the abundant funds that have been funneling through The Red Herring’s success, even though she started as a volunteer. Hermione’s grateful for the extra cash, really she is. She’s been dipping into an emergency fund her parents had set up for her back before the days of magic, but the account is teetering on the edge of being dangerously low.

There is an opening at a coffee shop down the way that Hermione has been keeping an eye on for a while.

Her _real_ job though, (the one that it seems like she’s been preparing for her whole life,) the one that she will begin in months, shortly after Harry and Ron, the one that feels like years away even if it’s only months. Still, she knows that Harry doesn’t have to worry about working two jobs, paying the increased rent for her muggle apartment, and still barely affording groceries at the end of the day. 

Immediately after the thought registers, Hermione feels horrible. She knows it’s not right to feel bitter about how good he’s had it. Especially considering the fact that he really hasn’t had it that easy at all.

He’s technically an orphan, but with the family he’s built around himself his whole life, and all the adults he barely knew who would die for him already? We’ll let’s just say Hermione never really had anyone care about her like that. Her parents… well, she might as well be an orphan too. No one really knows about her family life, no one really even cares to ask. But Harry is this -- Golden Boy. Someone deserving of every type of attention, and gets it 100% of the time. Hermione just thinks that it’s a little unfair is all. Despite the fact that Harry has had to deal with more grief than anyone should have to in a _lifetime,_ more often than not he focuses on the unfortunate rather than what is right in front of him that he should be appreciating. 

Recently Hermione has been waging more and more of these internal conflicts back and forth in her head. _Maybe instead of complaining about a lousy predicament, you could go look in the mirror and appreciate the things you have like you wish Harry would. Look at yourself, Granger. What have_ you _become?_

After a hot debate she has forced herself to have with … _herself,_ Hermione’s headache is returning full force.

Why can’t she ever get a full night’s rest? Why does she always expect to? She changes nothing about her routine and lies awake at night, still expecting to be able to sleep early the next evening. _Come on Hermione, insane, are we?_

Her mind has been a jumble of grumbling and thousands of questions she can’t answer. How ironic that the Brightest Witch of Her Age can’t even seem to answer to herself?

She wishes she could quell the stirring of her thoughts that makes her restless. Glancing humorlessly at a whole bookshelf she has dedicated to meditation guides and muggle psychology readings, she realizes how much she just doesn’t understand.

With one last look out from the balcony, she pours the rest of her cold cider down the sink and hopes sleep will find her soon. 

  
* * *  
  


It vexed him. Irritated him, fucking _irked_ him. He would stare at her from his peripheral and _seethe._ It was insignificant. Trivial at most. But sod it, Draco Malfoy could not bloody help it. 

She would tap the end of her quill on the broad wooden table in a steady _tap-tap_ after every perfectly scrawled sentence. Sometimes she would bring the damn thing up to her mouth and bite at the end of it. The slight click of the hard end of the feather clinking with teeth was infuriating. 

He was writing a letter of his own, and if she continued this behavior for even a minute more, he was going to snap his own quill in two.

“Something wrong, Draco?” His mother asks with an infuriating mask of sweetness.

He grunts and returns to attempting to write the bare minimum.

It was already hard enough to write a letter to his father, to begin with. With the interruptions, it was a nightmare.

Lucius Malfoy was rotting away in prison. This was a fact.

Draco’s mother had convinced him that writing a letter to his father every weekend would lift Lucius’s spirits. 

It is quite difficult to want to please someone who deserves to be in Azkaban. 

Draco does it for his mother instead.

In his neat, elegant script, his language was bland. He would update Father on the financial status of his family’s vaults and their several estates around the world.

He would distract his father with numbers, and quotes, in hopes of leaving behind the guilt, and the bitterness, and the scorn. 

He was only mostly successful.

Every time he announces he has finished a letter, Narcissa picks it up and smiles at him. She reads the contents and Draco tries to ignore how her smile dims as her eyes roam the sentences. Her smile is transformed into a frown by the time she meets his unchanging valediction at the end of the letter. 

_Regards,_

_Draco_

He knows his mother hates it. Expects a different composition every Sunday afternoon. Wishes her darling son would end a letter with _Love,_ or hell, put something in the letter that proves he is still capable of giving it to him.

Draco doesn’t think that is possible, so he doesn’t try.

He knows his mother is disappointed. 

He loves her, he does. He just can’t please everyone and still be okay at the end of the day. 

He tries to convince himself that by not trying, he is doing the right thing. He tries to convince himself that it will not matter to his mother. That she is not secretly holding onto this unrealistic reconciliation between husband and son. 

In the end, Draco feared his father more than he loved him.

He doesn’t have to explain this reality, for the vacant space that fills the letter after his brief entry will say it for him.

The vast emptiness appears to envelop Draco, holding him in its false comfort so he will delay the weight of his mother’s slight disappointment. 

She doesn’t push him anymore. No, he’s too old now. But she does ask him for so much with her eyes.

She’ll look at him just barely once over tea and Draco knows with alarming clarity that she’s concerned about him. She wants to nag him about why he isn’t currently courting the woman of his dreams or attending all of the social events so obnoxiously demanding for the young purebloods fresh out of Hogwarts. She wants to see him rise and live like the successful businessman he was raised to be despite what his past has decided for him, and he can tell she tries not to be disappointed in the underwhelming vision of her son. 

If he can try to spare her at least one sleepless night, that’s what he’ll do. He looks back at her and nods ever so slightly, a signal that _Y_ _es, I will be attending the Greengrass Gala next week, no you don’t have to worry, yes, I know what to wear._ He’ll give it one damn shot because she has so much faith in him and even though he knows it’s misplaced, maybe for one night he’ll attempt to deserve it. 

If not to help lift some of the weight that has been drowning his mother.

In fact, the relationship between his mother and father is increasingly complicated.

She knows her husband won’t come back. Not any time soon at least. Tries to distract herself from his empty side of the bed by filling it with men who are willing to help her forget. 

She holds onto her love for Lucius, though. As if it is a fraying rope holding something unimaginable at its end, as if it is not thinning, as if it is not about to break. 

As if it can save him. 

Draco lets her pretend. For if she can go on with her false hope and vacant smiles, perhaps so can he. 

* * *

As Hermione looks around, she can see so much of the tarnished light that still seeps out of the cracks of her broken family even though they’re hurting.

George Weasley is like a shell of a man. Regularly withdrawing in on himself, looks on with veiled eyes, crystal smiles so fragile, that the people around him wait for them to break. It's funny, in the most unamusing way, how George was once half of a whole set, someone who used to be made out of joy, causing laughter when it was in dire need, creator of hope, and now one of pity. It’s not too obvious, except for the people that know the Weasleys well, that they tiptoe on eggshells alarmingly often. Despite his crowding emptiness, he has increased production in his own shop. The new line of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes for survivors. Nightmare Nougat, Cheering Chocolates, Lee Jordan has even been helping funnel new ideas into the store. It’s not the same, it never can be, but George is gradually making his way toward being okay. 

Harry just acts like everything is his own damn fault and it makes Hermione want to scream. She knows so well just how much responsibilities he has been forced to take on his whole life. She was there for most of it. Hermione just wishes he knew that just because he had the weight of war on his shoulders doesn’t mean that the people who fought in it are his liability. He was just a boy for heaven's sake. Although he offers every part of himself to others in an attempt to mend their shattered places, he doesn’t leave too much left for himself. Hermione has seen him load up on one too many calming draughts once or twice, and it’s not a permanent solution, but Harry really does need the peace. On top of apprehension for Auror training, he and Ginny go see the muggle therapist Hermione suggested for them. The woman is a squib, so they don’t have to censor their trauma. It's a good thing. Harry needs a healthy coping mechanism. Hermione has seen her occasionally, herself even. 

Ron looks at all of them sometimes. Almost like he thinks they aren’t real. Like any moment he’ll wake up from sleep and this will soon all be a distant dream. He takes in his full, splintered, perfect family and what they look like and how they carry themselves, and Hermione thinks that he sees more than he lets on. He doesn’t talk too much anymore, which makes the rest of the family turn to him when there is a silence that he would normally be glad to fill. Hermione doesn’t know if it’s just emptiness that seems to emanate out and around the family, but she does know Ron is feeling it especially intensely. But he always tries to lend a shoulder to cry on, if only just for a moment. Ron is thoughtful that way. He'll anticipate who's on the verge of breaking and will be there in a snap to help relieve it. Ron feels like that's the least he can do.

Lavender has taken to using her voice as an anchor. She’s loud and pretty, and her laugh seems to calm people even if it doesn’t sound like silver church bells. She carries on like her purpose is to tend to other’s needs no matter how subtly or unconsciously she does it. She cares about everything besides herself and is constantly creating smiles in her wake. 

She’s selfless--Lavender has learned a lot after being the queen of the Hogwarts’ rumor mill. She knows people, knows what makes them tick, knows action and reaction like the back of her hand. Lavender and Hermione aren’t terribly friendly towards one another, Hermione has found she can’t quite keep up with the rush of Lavender’s thoughts and attitudes. But Lavender has pursued a job as a Mind Healer at St. Mungo’s (maybe she’ll take on designing and fashion on the side) and Hermione couldn’t admire her more. She embodies water. Steadfast and strong, unyielding even--but she can be soft and gentle. Hermione knows Ron likes that about her. 

Ginny can get unresponsive for lengthy amounts of time. She’ll zone out during a conversation and let the words twirl around her ears and not react to anything while staring at her hands. Almost like she’s continuously making a record of anything they’ve ever done -- anything they _could_ have done-- and then she’ll fade back into her body, the light slowly but surely returning to her eyes. (Harry may or may not be gingerly picking up this habit.)

But Harry is always the first person to notice when it happens and he’ll provide whatever small comfort he can in these moments. On occasion, he’ll slip a hand around her waist in a snug manner and count to ten in a grounding voice that only she can hear. When he thinks she’s increasingly overwhelmed and doesn’t want a suffocating touch, he’ll lightly rest his hands on hers for a few seconds and resume counting. Hermione thinks that having just one steady voice to focus on makes all the difference. 

The times that Hermione has seen Luna, there is a vague sense that something about her is off. 

Nowadays, she has taken to wearing more subdued colors and patterns, a startling switch from the lively attire and accessories she used to sport. She’s like Ginny in that way she can stare so endlessly it’s like Luna is not inhabiting her body. But she’s there and she’ll finish a story with the same breathy, wonder-filled voice about her adventures with strange unheard-of creatures.

Neville has become strong and confident. He doesn’t cower and is never afraid to speak his mind. Neville has also proved to be an avid listener. When he and Hermione go out to get drinks on Saturdays, a time in which Hermione feels she can truly relax; he lets her talk things out and through and it’s freeing. He’s a safe place of sorts because Neville has made it a habit to value and treasure what his friends have to say. He’ll make sure they always know he appreciates them, and that they are strong and amazing in their own right. Hermione doesn’t say it as much as she should but she tries to return the favor. Neville deserves the same treatment he offers others. And really-- Hermione looks up to him. He’s so forgiving and so _wise._ He always has the right thing to say, a kind word and a piece of parting wisdom. He’s very excited about this internship he’s told Hermione all about. Soon, he’ll be off learning how to become an herbal apothecary, and making up healing draughts for insomnia and anxiety and the like. He hasn’t told anyone, but Hermione thinks that with his plentiful knowledge, he might try to work towards a cure for people like his parents. When Hermione pictures Neville, he is somewhat stuck as the boy who took the sword of Gryffindor out of the hat and is ready to fight for what he believes in. Brilliant, and determined, Neville gets this gleam in his eye when he puts his mind to something. With the more and more time Hermione gets to spend with him, he has definitely developed an intrinsic sense of humor. Most important, Neville seems content. He knows what he wants to do and is pushing himself every day. There might be moments where he feels like he might crumble, but Neville picks himself right back up again and marches back to the front lines. 

Dean and Seamus are like a single unit these days. Almost as if afraid to let one another go. _Never again,_ she hears Dean whisper once. They go everywhere together, and on occasion, Hermione has seen them grasp each other’s hands tightly as they walk down the streets. They huddle together, and even if it’s a false lighthearted front that keeps them from feeling too much at once, they make sure to throw a small argument into every encounter. 

From what Hermione has heard, Dean has picked up playing the saxophone again. Seamus has told her that he used to play it before he got to Hogwarts, returning to it briefly each summer. Apparently he’s getting lessons now and puts on small recitals each month. It’s very sweet how happy it makes Seamus. He smiles brightly at Dean as if he’s the shining North Star and without him, Sea would be lost. 

As he comes in to pick up his standard croissant on Thursdays, he’ll be humming a tune from one of Dean’s latest compositions. As it turns out, he has quite a knack for it. He’ll invite all of them into their cramped flat, with mix-matched chairs gathered in the living room and put on a performance, eager to show them what he can do. Hermione admires the way he does it for himself, and how he continues to lead others down a joyful path.

And Seamus has always been a firecracker. Always a spark of light with a sharp wit. Dean looks at him like he’s the only man in the world. Ever since that first blown cauldron Dean and Seamus have belonged to each other. Speaking of explosions, potions might not have been his calling, but Seamus does have an artistic flair. Spatters of rotten concoctions have gradually turned into that of paint. Not only does Seamus create them, but he is also a work of art within himself. Nowadays Hermione hasn’t seen one article of clothing not covered with a variant of pigments. It’s no coincidence his specialty is splatter painting. In fact, as gifts, he has even created personal canvas art for each of his friends. Hermione keeps hers on the wall across her hefty bookcases. Sporadic dots and speckles coming together to form what looks like several books stacked on a table with delicate flower petals resting around the scene. Dashes of blue and yellow cover the mirage to highlight the more abstract aspect of his creation. It may just be the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given her. 

Hermione though? She’ll alternate between saying _nothing_ , listening with patient ears that have been developing since the first year of school, and other times, it’s like she can’t flip the switch in her mind to stop talking about the most irrelevant details of a pointless story. Or, she’ll begin listing unusual characteristics of the ocean sunfish when she knows that her friends have all zoned out. It seems that they expect her to be the one to drone on and on, and it’s already bad that she wants to be the one floating in releasing silence. Worse still, that no matter how much she wishes she could gradually draw away from the conversation, retreat further and further into the recesses of her old mind, she talks and talks, and drones, and rambles on and on--if not to take comfort in the sound of her own voice, suspiciously strong even though she imagines it weak and shaking around the edges of inflections and in between long elegant words. She also has this range of emotions that rest on opposite spectrums yet seem dangerously close together. A sentence could set Hermione off and her moods switch like _that_. But she feels like she’s living the same week over and over.

_Wake up, muffins, cider, go to work, knead the damn dough, smile at Harry, laugh with Ron, meet with Neville, come home, can’t sleep, dream._

It’s an endless cycle of the same news and it’s rooting and simmering inside of her, right below the surface. Hermione feels like her skin is _too tight_ sometimes. Like if she can’t break free from her routine she’ll be caught frozen for the rest of her life, trapped in a loop of insignificant tasks, and if she does, she’ll panic so hard she’ll reinforce a timetable for every possible second. On the scale between everything and nothing, Hermione encompasses all that’s in between.

That’s not all, really. Everyone seems to put on a brave face, but there are these tides that they drown in when no one’s around. 

Hermione doesn’t get nightmares, per se, it’s more like feelings. 

Sometimes she’ll turn a corner and Hermione will see a scene from the past. It never really… makes _sense_ exactly, she just sort of sees things and with her brain working a mile a minute as it always does, connections are made that sometimes aren’t even really there. 

She walked into a coffee shop once, it had a large mahogany tabletop where she took her seat. She set her elbows perched on the edge, and was thrown back to a moment in the Great Hall where she would tuck her head ever so slightly, unrealistically absorbed in her plate, so she wouldn’t have to see the increasingly terrifying headlines written on _The Daily Prophet._

Walking through shopping areas, the sound of banners announcing sales, flapping in the wind will launch her back to a time where her hands were always dirty, and she would land in a new plain of dirt right on the edge of _too late._ The fluttering of cloth reminds Hermione of the times she would feel the woven threads of their tent through her fingers right before she spelled it standing. 

Or sometimes, it will only be details. 

She’ll wake up with rushed breaths dragging her pulse higher and higher, and she’ll try desperately to remember that she’s _fine._

But there is always the smell of blood, fear, and dust, dancing in and out of her memory. The feeling of heavy sleeves bunched uncomfortably around her elbows as well as of laying on rough wooden planks that scratch her cheek. Sharp stinging on the base of her neck, the hilt of a dagger covered by angry fingers on the border of her vision. A tingling on her left arm. Distant screams that may or not be hers--but her throat is so raw. Gasping for breath, being so alarmingly thirsty. A tangle of hair at the base of her neck tinged with sweat. All of it fluttering behind her eyelids as she tries to settle to sleep again.

It never really stops.

Even as she and her friends attempt to move on, she doesn’t really expect them to.

But here’s to another day of trying. Of making it through another night.

That’s really all they can do. 

  
* * *  
  


Hermione Granger was a creature of habit. She woke up at precisely 7:15 each morning, padded to the kitchen to prepare her favorite warm chamomille tea minutes later, and even tossed and turned every night in the same indistinguishable cadence.

She felt the minutes in her bones, when tasks called out to her to be completed. If she took too long of a shower, or if her daily jog was unintentionally extended, she could practically hear the seconds crawling away from her mandated reading hour. 

If she had a new schedule to adjust to, it was marked in the most meticulously filled out calendar agenda that any of her friends had ever seen. 

Needless to say, Hermione liked routine and she liked to be prepared. Dealing with the unexpected was not her strong suit. Sure, she could improvise, but things that came up from out of the blue startled her. 

The day Harry had left her to take over the till, she was traditionally jittery and irked that she hadn’t been given more notice.

Hermione supposed that this factored into why she liked to study so much, she never wanted to be caught in unawares. 

No matter where they came from, she really did hate surprises.

When Mrs. Weasley, swamped in pans on the stove, asks Hermione for a favor, she doesn’t think anything of it.

A minute later, she hands Hermione a small wicker basket and gives her directions to a herb garden she installed when they got the restaurant. As she turns back to stirring what looks like the beginnings of a beef stew and another pot filled with gravy, Mrs. Weasley absently describes the place. “It’s hidden around a group of trees down the back alley a ways down. Once you spot that damned rusty barrel -- I’m always trying to get Tom to move it -- it’s _clearly_ a hazard, but look to your right once you see it. It might be a tad concealed, but a few paces away from the brick is a large clearing and a table -- the garden is behind the table, dear.” Pausing to mutter a spell that would stir the gravy without her help, she turned completely to face Hermione. “I’ll need you to pick me some basil, parsley, and thyme. Be careful of the stems, they’re very fragile. Don’t empty the garden, just take enough of each to hold a steady handful and only take some from the outer edges of the plant. Did you get that, dear?”

Hermione had been paying attention, but her eyes had been glued to one spot of wicker that was out of its place among the delicate weave. She draws her eyes to Molly’s and nods, “Turn right by the barrel, look over bricks, behind a table, pick a handful of basil, parsley, and thyme,” she confirms. 

Mrs. Weasley gives her a vast smile and pats her on the shoulder in a manner Hermione knows to mean she is behind dismissed. 

“Please hurry, dear!” 

  
  


So Hermione makes the venture out into the dull sun-soaked path behind the diner and stops right before the small wall.

Mrs. Weasley hadn’t mentioned anything about shears, but naturally, Hermione has a spell for that.

Another thing she ponders on her way to the garden is how the plants are even growing. There must be a stasis charm around it, Hermione thinks. The increasing chill in the fall months is no time to plant herbs after all. But Mrs. Weasley is nothing if not an advocate for fresh, rewarding food. Of course, she’d grow her own herbs.

As Hermione makes her way into the hidden clearing, the faint sound of her footsteps on the stone walkway that is slightly covered by dirt is a calming subject to focus on. 

She’s too busy walking close along one side of the throng of trees, staying tucked under a thicket of branches, trying to pinpoint the thrum of magic that’s connected to the garden to notice the head of platinum hair that belongs to a man who is gawking at her. 

“Granger?”

Hermione whirls around to face him. She drops the wicker basket. 

Dammit, her heart is beating like crazy, her palms already beginning to sweat. She can’t tell when her breaths begin to quicken but they do, and she can’t stop it or seem to focus on Malfoy’s wavering form.

She has half a mind to grasp onto her wand and hold tightly to the hilt with white knuckles. She’s not really even looking at him, isn’t that funny? He could be ready to hex her right now, and she wouldn’t know a thing. Her gaze is pointed at her fingernails, slightly red due to the pressure of her tight grasp of the wand. 

She doesn’t point it at him -- can’t really, because no he’s not a threat. 

He’s not, right? But how can she know for sure? She doesn’t. 

_Better to just raise your wand to be safe._

_Safe._

_Safe._

_Safe._

_Be safe, Hermione. Be safe._

She doesn’t realize she’s closed her eyes shut tight until she feels the wicker basket’s handle against her tense hands and opens them to inspect the sight around her more clearly this time.

She wasn’t expecting to feel the basket, but it’s oddly distracting her from spiraling so she calms.

“Damn Granger I didn’t think I was that scary.”

She stares at him for a moment, then back at the levitating basket he must be floating up for her to take.

She grasps it again, clears her throat and shakes her head even though it’s still a bit fuzzy.

“I didn’t think you were either. Although who can predict a Malfoy sneak attack? Forgive me if I was a bit startled,” she says with an edge her voice had taken on without her permission, her panic slowly unfurling inside of her. 

He holds his hands up in surrender and throws her a smirk, “I would hardly call that a sneak attack, Granger. _Forgive me_ for trying to enjoy the outdoors without interruption.” 

She rolls her eyes and puts the basket down on the table to rest her hands on her hips, “Trust me, I would never purposely infringe upon your alone time, Malfoy. Give me just a moment to gather herbs for Mrs. Weasley and I’ll be out of your insanely reflective hair.”

_Herb Garden?_ Draco thinks to himself. He hadn’t even noticed.

And sure enough, a spot secure with a perfect amount of sun shining along the dirt is the garden. He can see the thin atmosphere cast around it to protect the plants inside from harsh winds, and nasty temperatures. 

He hadn’t looked too deeply back here, thinking that it was all dirt and insects galore, hell he thought that the garden was _grass._

Kneeling down she inspects the stems and then uses her wand to cut the desired pieces off. 

She places them in the basket, incredibly gently, and gathers the weight in her arms. 

When she looks up at him, looking at her, Hermione frowns. 

“What are you doing here anyway? Are you really just here becoming one with the trees?”

He barks out a laugh, “Just my luck, Hermione Granger has caught me frolicking around with my photosynthetic friends,” Malfoy sarcastically jeers with his arms spread as if indicating the plants around them. 

She scoffs. (It’s outrageously irrelevant and Hermione is scandalized by the thought, but she does rather enjoy the way he says her name. As if it means nothing, and something else entirely, it’s completely different than the cautious heaviness her friends seem to use on her. The way Draco says her name, it’s like he doesn’t expect her to be anyone at all. It’s refreshing. 

She enjoys the banter really. It’s a welcome outlet to release the snark she tends to hold in, and really, he seems to be enjoying it too.) 

In an odd twist of fate, it appears Draco Malfoy does in fact harbor a secret sense of humor. 

He scoffs right back, “Oh come on. Is it really so unbelievable that I am actually out here to enjoy the fresh air that this place so graciously provides?”

Hermione crosses her arms, points her chin, “Not _unbelievable_ exactly _,_ just unlikely. About a one in a million chance I’d say.”

Something flashes in his eyes, and he stomps toward her, “And what makes you think you know me so well? Does miss know-it-all finally hold all the secrets to the universe? Did I miss the memo that you suddenly know everything there is to know?”

She gives him a look of _Well some things never change._

But she catches the fuse to his fire and lights her own, “Stop throwing that in my face will you? It’s not my fault that whatever nonsense that flows out of my mouth, people seem to take as the word of law,” It feels weird to bad mouth herself in such a way, even more so in front of _him,_ but well he got the ball rolling, and it’s going to take a greater force than she can harness to stop it. She doesn’t really even want to. So she continues, “Aren’t you just so lucky to be in here with flowers and dirt, while everyone else is out _there_ ,” she says gesticulating wildly, “working and pretending. Draco Malfoy is _here,_ and isn’t this the biggest miracle ever?”

Instead of being stuck in the dimension of uncertainty where she’s tongue-tied and doesn’t know how to respond, Hermione has been ignited in a way that she has missed, oddly enough. Her friends don’t tempt her this way and she can finally just _let go._

She also doesn’t really know what she’s saying, but she enjoys how the look in his eyes changes as she says it.

“As a matter of fact _yes,”_ He surprises her, yet again. “Yes, it is a miracle, yes, I am so incredibly lucky to be drowning in what a disaster my life is, that I’ve taken to laying here in the dirt with nothing to do. Do you honestly think that anyone is going to hire me, Granger? Why do you think that I’m here, right now, talking to you, right now, and losing my goddamn mind?” 

Okay, so Hermione is a little taken aback herself, but she has enough sense of mind to deflate a little bit. 

“Well then I guess that’s something we have in common, is it?” Lets out a humorless laugh, “We’re both losing our goddamn minds?” 

Unspokenly, they have agreed to stop going off on their mindless tangents, both questioning why they have given a stranger no less, more information than they should know. They’re frozen in the weight of _nothing_ that seems to exist here. Teetering on the edge of a pocket universe they’ve almost created in which he’s just Draco and she’s just Hermione. Not the one that they’re currently rooted inside of, where tense breaths are the soundtrack of the moment and stubborn stares are pinned at one another until Hermione realizes why she’s here in the first place. 

With one last look, she turns away and heads for the path back down to the street. 

Hermione doesn’t know why she says it, but as she goes, she calls over her shoulder, “Well you know where to find me if you need the balm for the soul that is hot chocolate.” And his faint chuckles fuel her steps as she leaves.

  
  


Mrs. Weasley is a little miffed that Hermione took longer than expected but she doesn’t ask, and for that Hermione is glad. What would she even have said? 

_Oh yes, I was caught up in a riveting conversation with my old school rival and bully, ex-death eater peer._

She would have settled on lying about getting lost. Probably.

Hermione tries not to think too hard about what just happened. About how that was the first time she’s had a conversation with someone who isn’t leaking with pity, who isn’t on the verge of breaking themselves, and for the first time she could say something without worrying about how he would react to the words coming out of her mouth. 

When he walks in an hour later and orders two hot-chocolates, he spots her as Hannah delivers them, and he even holds one up as if to toast to Hermione. 

It’s so unexpected, she throws her head back in a laugh and smiles to herself as Ron gives her an odd look. 

* * *

A few days later and Hermione is still thinking about the interaction she had with Malfoy. It’s not like he isn’t still awful… but she won’t doubt that he definitely is interesting. Most of the Weasley’s still quietly but fixedly harbor a “Death Eater Scumbag” attitude to Malfoy and the like, and the others have taken on an “out of sight out of mind” mindset, as well as a somewhat hesitantly warm response to their presence. Most of all they're just tired of the hate and the effort that goes into avoidance and separation. Now, they're all past anger. 

Mostly, anyway.

It's too much effort to keep up a ruse filled with unnecessary venom. With reluctant tolerance from both sides, there is an uneasy ignorance that's leaning towards peace. There's a lot more hidden behind closed doors to truly understand the other "side" of the war, so for now, they're just grudgingly keeping away from painful confrontations. Any Death Eater group has scattered, for Aurors are still pursuing any that hope to resurface Voldemort's cause. But the young ones anyway, just want to move on.

Hermione doesn’t know how all of those reactions can exist for the same people, but she figured maybe she’d have to get a little closer to Malfoy in order to figure him out.

After all, Hermione Granger loves her research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! It has taken me a while to really discover who these characters are now, and translating all of these feelings into storylines was a bit challenging at first, but here it is! I really hope you enjoy this one, it opened me up a bit as a writer, so I'm excited for you guys to read it.
> 
> Speaking of food though, as a sort of inspiration for the delicacies in this story, I've been watching a show called, Chef's Table, on Netflix and I highly recommend it if you're interested!
> 
> I also wanted to point out that the idea for George's new Weasley's Wizard Wheezes line to help with war trauma was really inspired by and taken from this post on Tumblr: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/393079873702034247/ 
> 
> Oh and thank you for every comment, view, and kudos, I really appreciate it! It's awesome to know what you guys think of this story!


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing Draco Malfoy notices when he walks into the grand open ballroom of the Greengrass estate is the drapes. After waiting a week for this grand event, he finds the atmosphere rather underwhelming. The shade of beige that clashes with the gold napkins carefully folded upon scattered circular tables is not the most atrocious thing to notice in the room, but Draco prides himself on his observational expertise. 

Next in line is Pansy’s dress.

“What was your inspiration for the night, a pygmy puff?” He smirks at her, raising his voice so she can hear him from several feet away. 

She huffs and scrambles over to him to the best of her ability, though Draco thinks that her movements are terribly impaired by the frill of the dress.

“Not a word, Malfoy. My mother had full control of my appearance,” she hisses at him.

He hums, looking skeptically at her shoes, and Pansy fumes. 

“What are you doing here anyway? You haven’t been to one of these for months,” she points out. And she is not mistaken. 

Draco groans with as much poise as possible, “A favor to my mother. I try my best to avoid these like dementors, but she wouldn’t drop it.”

Pansy hums and uncrosses her arms, seemingly forgetting her battle against the dress. “Mothers. What can you do?”

There are clouds of chatter enveloping the room and despite how out of practice he is, Draco embodies the cold, sculpted, pureblood heir he was raised to be and goes out to greet those in attendance. 

He makes sure to grab a champagne flute on his way to Daphne Greengrass.

Her dress is satin and lace, and a nice shade of blue. She has hair extravagantly styled and placed in a bun at the nape of her neck, tendrils floating by her ears. She has a plastic smile and dollhouse hands. Most apparent are Daphne’s eyes, which are mocking the man she is currently engaged in conversation with and Draco has the decency to save her. 

He strolls up like he has all the time in the world. Announcing his presence with a drawled exclamation, “Daphne! Your father just told me about your trip to Paris! You’ll have to tell me all about the new annual ministry ambassador presentation.” 

He slides in step beside her and completely ignores the dumbfound rotter to his left. Who Draco thinks might be Peregrine Derrick, mutters a quick goodbye, and moves on.

As soon as he is out of sight, Daphne immediately turns on him and lightly swats his arm, “You know I didn’t go to that! Draco, we literally went to Venice! Now Derrick is going to waltz right up to Father and act like they have something in common.”

Draco smirks, “You’re welcome.”

She shakes her head, “You’re impossible.” 

They’re interrupted by a tenor voice, loud and booming, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Britain’s most irresponsible bachelor has just arrived!” And Blaise Zabini walks right up and pushes Theodore Nott directly in the middle of their small gathering.

Theo curses at Blaise and juts out his chin, and Daphne smiles fondly at him like he’s an exasperating child.

“What happened this time?”

Blaise looks down at Theo, who is considerably shorter, and pushes him again, “He got hammered and almost bet his entire life savings on a skewed game of darts at The Leaky Cauldron last night,” he laughs. “Caused a right scene, this one. Someone even sent me a Patronus to get me to pick him up. He almost crashed on the barstool.”

Pansy stumbles right into Blaise’s back, effectively joining the conversation and eager for any opportunity of ripping into Theo. “I thought you had more class than that, Nott. Or wait, I think I just forgot about the catastrophe at your last birthday-”

Theo turns around the circle to address them all. He lets out something akin to a whine, “Please, for the love of Merlin, shove off for five bloody minutes.”

Draco pats his shoulder, “You asked for it mate, did Blaise have to send for your hangover potion too?”

Theo looks down and grumbles to himself. “Just because I went out and got lost in a few drinks does _not_ mean I’m irresponsible.”

Blaise catches his words and scoffs, “Yeah, if this was the first time, I might agree with you. Now, you’re starting to need twenty-four-seven supervision.”

Draco leans in close to Daphne and stage whispers, “It looks like he’s still not over Tracey, we’ll give him a break.”

Theo glares at him. “You are outrageous.” 

Daphne ruffles Draco’s hair, “Isn’t he!”

Draco swats her hand away frantically fixing his fringe, “Hey!” he shouts, sounding rather childish, “What’s that about? I thought we were busy hazing Theo.” Shit, Draco is starting to think that he should have mentally readied himself for this social interaction _._ He doesn’t remember it being this morally draining.

By now, unfortunately, Theo has gained his composure with his shoulders straight and his eyes arrogant once more, “Apparently we’re taking turns. How’s it feel, Golden Boy?”

Draco almost growls at him, hisses “Don’t call me that,” under his breath. Theo laughs while he backs up and holds his hands open near his ears, “My apologies, your _majesty.”_

Draco huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Pansy is nice enough to change the conversation and starts chatting with Blaise. Theo joins in a second later after throwing a cautionary glance at Draco. 

Daphne nudges him, leans in, “You get worked up pretty easily, don’t you?”

Merlin, the _audacity._ “And I’m the only one?” he scowls, gesturing towards where Theo is standing. 

Daphne just laughs, “No, but Theo has always been like that. I don’t seem to remember you being so _sensitive._ ”

He gives her a deadpan stare, “He is insulting.”

The eldest Greengrass daughter rolls her eyes, “I swear, it’s the only child syndrome.” Draco narrows his eyes, but before he can respond, she begins to lead him towards the far back of the ballroom. He holds out his arm for her, the pair joining together, looking very much the picture of elegance. 

“It’s like you can’t handle it when people disagree with you. Do you even have a backbone?”

It’s Draco’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yes, it must be so nice to constantly be at war with your siblings.”

Daphne pushes him this time, albeit subtly, “Don’t be nasty. You’re grossly underprepared to win an argument, that’s all I’m saying. At least _I_ have experience.”

“It can’t be that hard to outspeak Astoria.” The twinkling of the chandeliers is starting to give him a headache.

“You’d be surprised.”

And suddenly Draco is staring at the host of the party, Greengrass Sr.’s leather shoes clashing with his robes and several rings dressing his fingers. Luckily this is where Draco shines, adult talk is the easiest for him to partake in. It’s like talking to a cardboard box about the economy. Hell, maybe it is only child syndrome, but he doesn’t see his friends stepping up and talking to their elders with a grace matched by any Malfoy. 

He’ll engage Mr. Greengrass in polite conversation, perhaps make an inquiry to his business or ask about his wife. This is why Daphne brought him over here. So she can hang on his arm and smile, winning the hearts of every mother that will compare her daughter to the Greengrass heir, only speaking when spoken to and nodding along as if she’s listening. 

It’s rather impressive actually. But Draco can actually tell she’s ogling the spectacular dresses the women have graced the ballroom with, and meeting eyes with the acceptable bachelors in attendance, even giving out discreet winks every so often. 

Soon it’s time for Draco to make his farewell rounds before he leaves, already through with all the excitement. He makes sure to kiss Daphne on the cheek, “Minx,” he whispers in her ear before they separate. She blushes, but doesn’t deny it, in fact, she mock curtsies and gives him a wink of his own, “At your service.” 

He laughs and she blows him a flirty kiss before going to catch up with Tracey. 

Even though their mothers have not so subtly nudged the two into the prospect of courting, Daphne could not be less interested, and Draco thinks he would have to train to be able to keep up with her personality. They like to play it up whenever they so happen to be seen together though, it’s a rather fun game to play. Not to mention the bonus of his mother being so giddy he was “wooing Daphne” she’ll let up on her nagging for the night. 

It's a win, win really. But despite how much he has had to participate in galas and charity balls, and family dinners, and how much he hates every second of chatting with the parents of his generation, still feeling like he has to prove himself to every single one of them, he feels dead tired afterward. 

After he floos home, the ground feeling twice as solid as it did when he left, only craving the warmth hot chocolate spreads through his body, he settles in a chair by the fireplace. 

It’s back is hard, much too straight, the armrests built of polished wood, and Draco is also far too used to it. He settles as best as he can, stares into wayward flames as they lick the wood and honestly Draco feels like he’s decomposing. Maybe tomorrow he can visit the one place where he actually feels human, or maybe less so. If he could dwindle down into tree roots and the skeletons of old leaves, becoming more and more a part of the soil, he’d try. 

He falls asleep twenty-nine minutes after sitting down. Maybe tonight he’ll find himself in a sleep that finally feels like rest. And wake up with a crick in his neck. 

  
* * *

After the chaos of the morning, stopping briefly at a shop to hunt down the only brand of tuna Crookshanks seems to like that Hermione can’t seem to find _anywhere,_ Hermione thought that it might be alright to stop by. Just a little peek and then she would be on her way. Maybe if it was nice, she’d sit a minute in the cold air before the bitter wind picked up.

But fate had different plans. 

As soon as she made her entrance and spotted a platinum head of hair, she turned right back around and attempted to walk away without him noticing her presence. 

She was unsuccessful.

“Wow Granger, two for two.” And there Draco Malfoy sat against the wooden table, his eyes closed tight and drawn towards the pale sun. How is it that he can act so entitled without even moving?

She grits her teeth, “Oh shut it.” Taking a wider glance around, the branches seem to be beckoning her closer to the center of it’s wonder. “Pardon me if I didn’t realize that this place and Draco Malfoy are a package deal.”

He sighs, in a mockingly disapproving way. “You should have known, Granger. It was practically a given that I could be found in such top tier real estate.”

Hermione thinks it’s a little strange that the “top tier” land in which he is referring has tangled branches every direction you turn and the ground is littered with yellowing leaves. 

Hermione scoffs, and without turning to exit, she mutters, “Oh very impressive. Well now that I see that you have umm-- _staked your claim,_ I’ll be on my way.”

“Oh good.” He re-settles his weight, making it glaringly obvious he isn’t going anywhere. Hermione almost gasps at his nonchalant rudeness, forgetting that she can simply leave and spare both parties the pain of another interaction. Although… Hermione _hates_ backing down. 

“Yes, I wouldn’t want you to have to _share.”_ She offers as bait, in some soft, twisted sort of way. It is now that he finally takes a look at her. Hermione is sure that he is less than impressed. Her hair is being played with by the breeze, her coat is haphazardly fixed on her body, simply put, she’s a _mess_. 

He makes no expression for what feels like more than a few awkward seconds before raising his eyebrows and smirking, turning back towards the sky. “Ah, how generous of you,” He exclaims.

On the tip of her patience, Hermione rolls her eyes, “Spoiled much?”

“Quite,” he confirms, his voice annoyingly confident. Still burning a hole in the ground, not moving, or conceding, or _losing,_ Hermione stomps around the area, tracing a finger on a leaf, memorizing its color. She knows despite how dismissive he might seem he enjoys riling her up, enjoys this snarky banter that doesn’t mean _anything._ “Well,” her voice rising and casual, as if wishing a friend farewell, “I’ll be on my way now.”

She’s practically out of the forest by the time she hears, “But Granger, who will water your plants?” Malfoy sounds like he’s practically whining, with an unnecessarily dramatic flair, lazily rolling his head in her direction once more.

He’s referring to the garden of course. How she could forget it’s existence in less than forty-eight hours is a bit embarrassing.

She’s calm, she is, but he tempts her _so,_ and she has to remind herself that a reaction is just a trophy she doesn’t want to give him. She spots one of his legs bouncing and begins to tap her fingers on her other wrist in the same pattern.

“I’m sure that Mrs. Weasley can take care of _her_ garden,” she points out, more irritated at his voice than his insinuation that she is responsible for every goddamn force on the planet. 

“But as it seems like you’re here all the time, you could afford to check on them for her.”

Malfoy looks as if he’s sinking into the table even further, “Here? All the time?” His eyes just might be shining. “You’re Delusional.” 

“No, really. Should I be concerned? Do you-- do you,” she looks around as if checking for onlookers, “ _sleep_ here?” And obviously, he doesn’t. Although she wouldn’t be surprised. 

Not that she noticed right when she walked in of course, but he is wearing the same pair of robes he was the last time. The smudges of dirt on the legs of his trousers might give him away one of these days. 

She crosses her arms and awaits his response, sure of the fact that he is living to keep their not-quite conversation going. 

Instead of replying, however, he reaches into his pocket and Hermione hears a metallic jingle.

He throws three sickles on the table and then looks expectantly at her, a mantra of _fuck it,_ running through his brain, “Oh don’t be too eager now, come on. What’s the matter, Granger? You must know that I haven’t cursed them.”

She eyes the coins from her spot by a twisted willow tree. “Not that I’m terribly certain you _haven’t_ , what do you want me to do with them? I’m presuming that you aren’t insinuating that I need your _charity._ ”

He rolls his eyes, “Of course not. Isn’t it obvious, Granger? I’m ordering something from you.”

Incredulous, Hermione looks around and whispers, “Does it look like I’m at work right now?”

He scoffs, “Does it look like I won’t tip you? Come on Granger, go deliver me a blueberry scone and I’ll throw in four galleons.” She almost thinks he’s proving his wealth to her. 

Faintly amused, and fairly suspicious, she steps toward him and sniffs the air around the currency. 

Having come to a conclusion, Hermione shakes her head and steps back knowing she’s about to sign up for the game he just invented-- if only to see how he’ll react. “How about seven?” She picks up a galleon and turns it over in her palm, “I didn’t think _Malfoy’s_ were capable of being cheap. Four galleons, really? It’s quite a treacherous walk from here to the kitchen, I’m going to need a bit more insurance.”

His eyes say the same thing a smile would have. He downplays it though, “Fine. Fine sure, seven more galleons, whatever you want.” He says as he pulls out the extra coins, “I wasn’t aware your negotiating skills were so up to par, but you must get in a lot of practice with Weasel, right?”

Hermione abruptly sits down across from him, ignoring the jab at her old relationship. “It wasn’t hard. You’re acting uncharacteristically like a pushover.”

It hasn’t hit her yet, but there are questions that keep repeating somewhat buried in her mind, _what are you still doing here? What are you doing talking to_ him? _You don’t even know him--why are you still here? Why are you still here?_ And Hermione has no idea how to answer a single one other than the fact that if her nerves weren’t on end and if she was totally sure he wouldn’t curse her any minute now, she might just be enjoying herself.

Who would have thought?

He groans and finally completely faces her, “You think I’m going to miss those galleons? You’re wrong. Here,” Throws the eighth galleon at her, barely missing her nose. “Can I just have the damn scone?”

She flinches before picking it up from where it fell on the dirt between her feet. 

Hermione smirks at his outburst and can’t help but make an observation, “You’re wound awfully tight.”

Malfoy stands up and pulls at his hair, “Yes that seems to be a general consensus this week, sweet _Merlin,_ do I have to ask you again?”

Not quite taken aback, she tries to match his dramatics. She puts a hand up to her chest and gasps, clearly mocking. “And I thought you had manners. Just for that, I’ll drop it on the way over here.”

“Do it, I’ll _sue_ you, peasant.”

Hermione almost laughs, “For a scone? That’s terribly shallow.”

Still standing up and staring her down he shakes his head, “Do I need to ask _again?”_

Hermione shrugs, “Couldn’t hurt.”

“ _What is your problem!”_

 _“My_ problem?" Hermione outright guffaws, " _You’re_ the one yelling at me about a bloody scone!” She yells, standing up too. “And not to mention that you have legs! Why don’t _you_ just walk on over there and get one yourself? Better yet, go home and have a house-elf serve you so you don’t have to move a bloody muscle!”

Pressing a hand to his heart, he says, “Endorsing the use of a house-elf? My my, have you changed.”

Her jaw clenches as she spits out, “I’m not _endorsing_ anything. It’s not like you won’t do it anyway.”

Malfoy moves his hands to his pockets, “You’d be surprised, Granger.” At this moment, he doesn’t sound quite so mean. 

But Hermione stands while glaring at him, “If not to be done with this interaction as fast as possible, I’ll get your damn scone.” She pockets the money, purposely not thinking about what he must think of her accepting the coins, going along with his terms, and it leaves her offended that he might just think she needs any of it. Pulling on a saccharine smile, and halfway gone she sings, sweetly but deadly, “ _Coming right up!_ ”

She _almost_ forgets about it. Living her day in patches, her focus is wearing and divided into things that aren’t a priority. _Incredibly_ helpful, Hermione thinks. Honestly, it would really be too funny if she did forget. But fair is fair, so she waits thirty minutes (on purpose) and strolls over with the pastry wrapped in a napkin and her feet kicking the dirt at her feet. Not in any rush. 

She will neither confirm nor deny whether or not the blueberry delicacy made contact with the ground on her way to the clearing. 

Fairly positive he’ll be there when she arrives, she yells for him, placing his scone on the tabletop, turning around, and slamming right into his chest. 

He moves past her with no comment, inspecting it and thanking her. 

“What was that?” She feigns.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” He sighs, exasperated. Wisely, not voicing his obvious frustration at having to wait. 

She smirks and repeats herself from earlier, “Couldn’t hurt.”

He breaks off a corner and sticks it in his mouth, literally waving her off. 

Before departing, she shakes her head at him, “You are _exhausting,_ Malfoy _.”_

Not daring to speak with a mouthful, he swallows before responding. “So I’m told. Now I’m sure there must be other customers demanding your attention.”

Hermione scoffs, returns to work, to her usual routine, letting the rest of an already weird day fold out. 

The only other excitement happens around three when she is sending off an owl delivery box for the Parkinson estate. 

Hermione is glad they didn’t make the effort to visit in person. 

A little later, Ron catches her by the elbow as she’s putting biscuits in the oven. He seems rather timid, almost shy, he’s rarely like this. “Do you think Paris is nice, Hermione?” 

A bit taken aback Hermione sputters, “What- well, I only remember going with my parents there over the summer once. The museums were quite beautiful,” -Ron snorts- “Why? Are you planning a trip?” She asks, curious.

He just smiles at her, juts his chest out a bit. “Doing a bit of research on my own, Mione, don’t get too excited.”

And while Hermione can tell that he is keeping many things close to his heart, she knows that this is his way of preparing her, preparing himself to open up later, and if there’s one thing she can give Ron, it’s time. She won’t push. Not today at least. 

The sun seems to smile at her as they leave for the day, and Ron does too. 

* * * 

Daphne and Blaise show up on his doorstep long after the evening has bloomed. "Mind if we come in, Draco?" The blonde's voice is uncharacteristically sweet. From behind the pair, Theo trots ahead, pushing them aside, "Sod asking," he mutters, even marching on past Draco. Presumably to where Draco stashes the good Scotch. 

"You didn't forget, did you mate?" Blaise's eyebrows are raised as Malfoy Manor's dark interior greets its guests. The high ceilings catch his question and let it fall to the ground like a feather. It dawns on Draco.

Fridays. The infamous night of the week where the Slytherins gather at the pre-established Manor of choice and get sufficiently wasted while Theo gives them news about his father, Blaise worries about Theo, and Daphne gossips about her latest secret relationship. Pansy and Draco usually have a bet running. When will Daphne go too far and say something that reminds Theo of Tracey, that then leads Theo to become the sad drunk they all know and love? Or something like that.

They make their way to the parlor, starting to settle in chairs around the room. Daphne trails slightly behind, "Pansy couldn't make it," she offers weakly, and not for the first time tonight, her tone makes him worry. 

He finds out shortly just why everyone is so tense. Blaise breaks the news. 

His rage is riding the tide that is sweeping through his brain and steadily eating him alive. Somewhere in his exhausted disbelief, Draco wonders why he always has to be the last person to know these things. The up and down toll of today is weighing on Draco, and he thinks he might be drowning. First he verbal rollercoaster he had with Granger this morning, sufficiently overwhelming him with her emotions rising and changing so quickly he could hardly keep up, and now _this_? 

"Engaged?" he asks, his throat suddenly very dry. 

Blaise nods, and Theo is uncharacteristically quiet. 

"Marcus Flint," Daphne says in a voice that sounds as close as it can to a cry. 

Before he knows it, Draco's glass is in shards on the floor, the liquid seeping into the rug. He doesn't have to look back on his Hogwarts days to know that Flint isn't decent. Not even close. 

"Her mother announced the courtship this morning. She signed the contracts without even asking her daughter. Apparently, the new couple is spending the weekend together to celebrate." Theo is facing the window, his form shadowed by the light enveloping and blanketing every surface in the sitting room. It's too bright. Too cold. Theo concludes his statement with a hard hiss, making the word "celebrate" seem poisonous. 

Draco has a sinking feeling that he knows exactly what will become of Pansy, but too scared to believe it. Everyone knows that Pansy can hold her own. It's glaringly obvious. Draco hopes to Merlin that he's over exaggerating. But to believe that what makes Flint's history invite scorn or his actions invoke fear isn't what Mrs. Parkinson thought him to be a prime candidate would be naive. In the eyes of their parents, Pansy should be _proud_ to be chosen by such a fine gentleman.

Draco wonders if Pansy had already known, keeping the secret locked in her heart, still somehow on her sleeve. He wonders If she wanted to spare him any worry until it would be too late to change anything. Until right now.

Hell, Daphne could be next.

And although this Friday might be disguised as a game night, their numb fingers picking up chips and galleons, it feels a little bit like they're all mourning. 

* * *

Needless to say, Hermione is entirely too pleased to spend the afternoon pressed against the couch, Crookshanks in one arm and a book in the other. Breanne Flounce’s _Potions without the Cauldron_ is keeping her long occupied. Reading technique has somehow become Hermione’s key to relaxation. Somewhere buried in her bookshelves, _The Winter’s Tale_ weeps. 

Hermione can’t bring herself to yearn for Shakespeare’s romances when there is one blonde she can’t seem to just forget about. She's too much of a shut-in not to remember precisely what he has said to her. And so what if she took a few notes? It's _helpful._

Hermione puts aside the text. Strokes her lovely cat and assembles a scheme in shambles that her confidence makes her believe she’ll be able to pull off without a hitch. 

Tomorrow she has to run a few errands in Diagon Alley, it’ll be Saturday after all, which means no work. Maybe even with what the forecast promises as a sunny day, she’ll find out if Malfoy really is as predictable as she believes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Friends! It's been a while, I know. Good thing music always gives me the motivation to write.  
> Next chapter will be more exciting, you'll get to see more of Draco's friends! I love their whole dynamic that is coming together, especially their protectiveness for each other, and I hope you guys love it too!  
> See you soon :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is basically my first fic ever and a multi-chapter one nonetheless, so I think it's safe to say that you will probably be seeing more of me here! I really hope you enjoyed this one so far! Comments are always appreciated :)


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